When We Are Gone

  I used to be a neem tree, tall and strong, my slender leaf fronds swaying in the wind. I lived in a beautiful forest, brimming with life. It was called Aarey. Every day my friends and I danced to the rhythm of the sun, harnessing the soft golden light to make something magical. It was oxygen, a gas that fostered life. This oxygen brought joy and life to our forest and the dirt ridden polluted city around us. Life couldn’t be better, but I had under-estimated human folly, stupidity, short-sightedness and greed

          A few months ago, we heard the rumours for the first time. “They are going to chop down a few thousand trees at Aarey” to make space for a Metro car shed”.  At first, I didn’t believe the rumours. And why should I have done so? Why on earth would the humans want to destroy the only forest in the heart of Mumbai. Why would they want to massacre thousands? 

          Panic broke out in all areas of the forest. The saplings were especially confused. If you acknowledged them thes would pounce on you and plaster you with questions. “All the humans coming?” Will they bring manure cookies? Are we all going to die! An old Banyan tree said to me “Have faith, for in my childhood I was told stories of another massacre of tree kind. But it was stopped by humans, humans to actually understood. They risked their to save the trees, knowing that they were more than lifeless logs of wood. They called it the chipko movement. Who knows, there might be another one”  

          And then, in the middle of the night, men came with chainsaws and heavy machinery. Soon cold blooded murders were underway. My neighbours fell down with a thud, one by one. There were blood curdling screams all round. But no one came rushing out of the gloom to save us, no one wrapped their arms around our trunks to shield us from the blades in axes. And soon, it was my turn. A big blast of pain tore through my body. I screamed at the top of my lungs, but no one could hear me, other than the spirits of the forest, who held my tight in my moment of agony. My life soon flew away with the wind. But the killers didn’t miss a beat. They didn’t stop and acknowledge the passing of a life. I like to think that one of them even felt a twinge of guilt. But more likely, they took me as just another lifeless log of wood. 

          Now I am a piece of timber in a timber merchant’s yard, waiting to be cut into smaller pieces and used to make furniture or something equally unimportant. I feel sorry for the you. When all the trees are gone, when climate change causes sea levels to rise and submerge Mumbai and other cities, when your air is too polluted to breathe, I hope you remember us. I hope the Metro carshed built over the scene of my murder, stands strong and gives you shelter and …………….oxygen. 

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This is a little piece I penned a few years ago, for a elocution competition.